He came to his feet. “Don’t bullshit me. I remember those father-and-son get-togethers when I was fourteen, fifteen. You trying to figure out how to make up for all those lost years and me spitting in your eye.”

Jack grabbed the guitar. “Look, I’m working on a song here. Just because you finally decided you want to dig up old garbage doesn’t mean I have to grab a shovel, too.”

“Just tell me this. If you had to do it all over again…”

“I can’t do it over, so let it go.”

“But if you could…”

“If I had to do it again, I’d have taken you away from her!” he said fiercely. “How’s that? And once I had you, I’d have figured out how to be a father. Fortunately for you, that didn’t happen because, from where I stand, you turned out just fine on your own. Any man would be proud to have you for a son. Now, are you satisfied or do we have to fucking hug?”

The knots in Dean’s stomach finally eased. He could breathe again.

Jack dropped the guitar to his side. “You can’t make peace with me until you make peace with your mother. She deserves it.”

Dean stubbed the muddy toe of his sneaker against the stair tread. “It’s not that easy.”

“It’s easier than holding on to so much pain.”

Dean turned away and headed back to his truck.

He left his muddy sneakers and socks on the porch. As usual, no one had remembered to lock the front door. Inside, the house was cool and quiet. A basket in the foyer held his shoes. His caps hung on the coatrack. Next to the brass tray where he tossed his keys and spare change was a photograph of him when he’d been eight or nine. A bony, bare chest; knobby knees sticking out below his shorts; a football helmet engulfing his small head. April had taken it one summer when they’d lived in Venice Beach. His childhood photographs had popped up all over the house, pictures he didn’t even remember.